By the window in lockdown

When a prolonged detachment from the natural world leaves me shrivelled like an unwatered hydrangea, I remind myself to look out of the window. And without fail, this effortless act of good resolution would bring that exciting enjoyable quality of life back into my existence, like a freshly watered plant.

I write this in the midst of winter and today neither the snow is falling nor is the wind blowing. The world outside my window looks cold, quiet and devoid of any movement. It is this quality of nothing happening that holds my attention. I know somewhere in the shelter of an evergreen a song bird is roosting, somewhere in the protected bays of the lake ducks are waddling, and the footprints on the snow tells me that the rabbits are out looking for food. And yet everything is motionless outside my window, the quality that quiets the busiest of mind.

When I look long enough, I start to see birds amongst the branches, on fences, on poles, on the ground and in the sky. Squirrels however are always the first to appear in the periphery of my vision, scuttling in my yard, always taking me on a journey through my surroundings.

Today I saw a grey squirrel, healthy looking, quite at her leisure, leaping merrily towards a maple tree. She went up the trunk and with great ease ran along the branches thinner than her legs. After a good amount of looking around, perhaps for a seed or two hidden by birds in the crevices, she climbed down the tree as gracefully as she went up. She leapt through the fresh snow and headed towards another maple tree, as bare of leaves and fruits as the one she came from, but very different in personality. She climbed up this tree and sat near the tip of a long branch with her furry tail held up and hands held together like in a prayer.

The world must look different from one branch to another, from one tree to another, each view unlike the other. How many brooks has she been to? How many corners has she hidden her nuts? How many trees has she climbed? To the squirrel this neighbourhood must be her entire world, happy with places she has been and free of longing for places she has not seen.

A few minutes later she climbed down, refreshed perhaps from a quick nap or an effectual prayer. She then vanished into the neighbours yard beyond the view of my window. How freely she goes from one yard to another without any qualms.

I saw her again from another window. The squirrel had made her way to the back of our house and was now tip-toeing on our neighbours fence making her way to our fence. After she had run the full length of our fence, she jumped on a tall evergreen. She disappeared into the thickets of a pine tree, leaving me by the window wondering where she went. Whose window is she going to appear at next and if there will be anyone watching. Somewhere by the window, a poet must be carefully choosing her words, lovers must be having a cup of tea, a broken heart must be finding solace in the beauty of snow. By the window, answers appear, thoughts wander, invisible becomes visible.

It is only a matter of time before the world starts to burst outside my window. Bees, birds, crickets. The window will then have music. And it will stay open all day.